The broken silver clasp bit into Adrian’s palm, the sharp metal edges drawing a crescent of blood that he barely felt. He stood motionless beneath the dripping leaves of the privet hedge, the beam of his heavy tactical flashlight cutting a stark white tunnel through the mist. The damp night air carried the sharp, unmistakable scent of crushed earth and expensive motor oil—a scent that did not belong to the natural decay of an autumn garden.

Vivienne’s heels clicked furiously against the marble floor of the grand foyer as she hurried toward the private elevator that led directly to the rooftop helipad. Her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, her immaculate poise completely shattered. The plan was falling apart. Marcus was taking too long at the incinerator, Adrian was loose in the lower levels, and that damn child had seen too much.

She slammed her fist against the elevator call button repeatedly, cursing under her breath.

“Going somewhere, Vivienne?”

She whipped around.

Maria stood at the edge of the foyer, the black tactical vest stark against her simple gray housekeeper's uniform, holding the Glock with steady, professional precision.

Vivienne’s eyes widened in sheer terror. The delicate, vulnerable fiancé act vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, venomous snarl. “You’re an operative.”

“I’m the person who cleans up the garbage,” Maria said, stepping forward. “And you’ve polluted this house long enough.”

Vivienne’s hand slipped into the pocket of her wool coat, her fingers wrapping around the grip of a pearl-handled snub-nosed revolver. “You think you can stop a multi-million-dollar acquisition with a pistol? Marcus has Viktor out there. Adrian is already dead by now. Once the helicopter lands—.”

“The helicopter isn't coming, Vivienne,” Maria interrupted calmly. “Look out the window.”

Vivienne glanced frantically toward the tall arched glass doors facing the front courtyard. Red and blue emergency strobes were flashing silently through the heavy mist. Half a dozen black tactical vehicles had surrounded the perimeter gates, their headlights cutting through the dark like searchlights.

“Drop the gun, Vivienne,” Maria commanded, her voice dropping an octave. “Or I put a round through your kneecap before you even clear leather.”

For a second, Vivienne looked like she was going to draw. Her knuckles turned white around the grip of the revolver. Her chest heaved. Then, slowly, with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred, she let the small gun slip from her fingers. It hit the marble floor with a dull, heavy clatter.

“You’re too late,” Vivienne hissed, her lips curling back from her teeth. “The transfer codes were sent to Zurich five minutes ago. Even if Adrian survives, he’s bankrupt.”